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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
Lord Byron
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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Favor
Favors
Atheism
Least
Religion
Nothing
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The law of heaven and earth is life for life.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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Happiness was born a twin.
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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.
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America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made each zone Obeys thee thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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I hate all pain, Given or received we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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